


How to Like Something

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Homophobic Language, Keith makes bad life decisions, Lance doesn't, M/M, Pedophilia, Pedophilia tag is for mentions of Sheith, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:06:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lance grows up with broken sequins.  Keith grows up with broken bones.





	

Lance was practicing being a pirate! Which was a totally boyish thing to do, so none of his classmates could say a word, especially not _stinky_ Ernesto. Boys were pirates all the time.

Yvette was outside with Desirae anyway, she'd never notice that he'd even been in her room.

He still ducked down every time the girls kicked the futbol too close to Yvette's open window. His sisters' raucous laughter echoed and bounced throughout the silent room as Lance tiptoed towards the closet.

That's where the loot was. As a pirate, he was going to steal it. His sister hadn't even looked at her birthday present for more than a second before she shoved it in here anyway. She wouldn't miss it.

Lance opened up the plastic bag Yvette had put her present in, reaching in slowly and extracting the gift as quietly as possible.

With the touch of scratchy plastic to his fingertips, Lance grabbed ahold of his prize. The loot was his! He giddily pulled out Yvette's present, holding it close to his chest for a brief moment. Victory was sweet!

Lance snuck out of the room the way he came, loot hidden under his shirt. He tiptoed across the hallway into his room, before slamming the door behind him and locking it.

"Yes!" Lance uncovered the plastic treasure from under his shirt, holding it up in his grubby six-year old hands.

Still cautious, he very hesitantly slid the loot onto his head, before looking in the mirror.

The plastic tiara glistened with rhinestones in the warm afternoon light, and Lance beamed at his reflection. He twirled around, giggling. "I get to be the princess now!"

Lance pulled out one of his little army men, dressed like a tiny revolutionary, and pitched his voice as low as it would go, "Princess, I heard there's pirates around! I'm here to save you!"

He danced across his room, grabbing his toy gun, "We can fight the pirates together!"

"Pow pow pow!" Lance crowed, jumping up on his bed and bouncing.

"We defeated the pirates!" Lance laughed, tossing his gun aside, "So now we're gonna dance at the ball!"

He started humming, hopping around on his mattress to the steps to a waltz, like he'd learned in dance class. His hands were on the waist of an invisible man, leading him in pretty circles. The princess always danced with the handsome guy who saved her, after all, and at the end...

...a kiss!

Lance pressed a loud smack to the head of his army man, giggling.

"I love you!" He squealed, blushing at even pretending to say those words.

"I love you more! I'll protect you from those dirty thieves forever, Princess Lance!" the army man said, in Lance's croakiest baritone. Lance waved the plastic toy in the air, staring for a brief moment into the mirror.

The tiara glittered in his short, chestnut locks, and he lost his smile. "I shouldn't steal..."

"It's not like Yvette wants it," Lance rationalized.

"But I'm the dirty pirate," Lance argued, frustrated. "Princesses don't steal. If Yvette took my stuff, I'd cry. I can't take Yvette's present..."

He took the tiara off, and sat down on his Toy Story comforter, his eyes heavy with tears. Lance stared at it hopelessly, whimpering, "Why can't I ever get to be the princess?"

He stared out the window, through the palm trees to where his sisters were shouting and kicking and playing futbol and absolutely not paying him any mind whatsoever.

"I'll just put it back..." Lance whispered, tucking the plastic tiara back under his shirt.

He didn't bother sneaking. He just walked right into Yvette's room, dropped off the tiara, and walked back into his own room, without worrying about being caught.

His sisters didn't care anyway.

Lance shut his door behind him, crawling back into his bed and fishing out his stuffed lion. He pretended that he didn't keep her around, but Blueberry was one of his oldest and most treasured possessions. He squeezed her tight against his chest and cried into her mane, silently wishing that the rhinestone tiara that he would find three days later in the garbage was once again securely in his hair, and that, for once, Lance could be the princess.

* * *

Keith climbed down the ladder, his feet making quiet noises against the wood as he descended. The room was dark, hushed, a pale yellow nightlight flickering in the hall the only thing he had to navigate with.

He landed on the ground with a soft plofmp noise, and carefully stepped his way around the variety of things that littered the floor.

Keith could hear the woman talking, and the man slamming doors as he left the house, but otherwise the night was silent. He could watch as cars drove by and their lights illuminated the popcorn ceiling, and as street lamps outside the window flickered.

_The night was alive_ , Keith thought.

The woman was talking on the phone.

He crept closer to the door, trying to hear more.

"He's like a devil child! All he does is bite at us and hiss like some animal! He never sleeps, he barely speaks, he doesn't listen, and when he does open that mouth of his all that comes out are screeches so piercing I fear for my windows! You said he was healthy! I didn't pay to adopt a retarded demon child!"

The voice on the phone buzzed back at her, and she scowled, twisting the phone cord around her finger as she paced the kitchen.

"He doesn't even like it here, clearly. He's completely torn up my sewing room, he won't eat, and he stares at me with these lifeless eyes. What if he hates living here too?"

More buzzes.

"—what do you mean?! This must happen all the time, kids being adopted and having them be a poor fit—"

A longer buzz.

"You just don't want him back because you know he's not right. There's something definitely not right with that—that _thing_ and you lied to me when you said it was a regular, healthy 8 year old boy."

Keith retreated back into the room, his fingernails biting painfully into his palms.

This was his 8th day with the man and woman. Soon they would find a way to return him. No matter what the buzz on the phone said, there was always a way.

It was on a night like this that he had been left in the hospital. His mother never picked him up. She popped him out and left him. Keith didn't know what that really meant, besides that he didn't have parents and everyone else did.

Keith didn't know how to make the woman and the man keep him. He didn't even know if he wanted them to.

Instead, Keith crept outside the hallway and out the open window in the kitchen, and just started walking.

His bare feet burned with the chill of the night, but he'd never felt more alive.

It took the police 36 hours to find him, and he was removed from the man and woman, only to be placed with another pair by the next week.

* * *

Lance sat in the stands with his dad, watching his older sister Desirae dribble the ball, passing it back and forth between her dark shins as she dodged and danced out of the way of all the other futbol players.

Lance leaned against his dad's arm, yawning in the bright sun, the ocean breeze not enough to keep him cool in the sweltering humidity. He drummed his fingers on his bare knee, his shorts sticking to both the bleachers and his sweaty thighs.

"Do you want to paint your nails when we get back home?" His dad asked quietly, his dark eyes watchful as he peered out from under his broad brimmed hat.

"They always come out ugly when I do it," Lance frowned, pouting as he kicked his legs out, narrowly avoiding kicking the man in front of him in the back.

"I learned some tricks from your Tía the other day," His dad hinted, "She gave me one of those sandpaper sticks."

Lance gasped, grabbing onto his dad's shirt sleeve, "Really? You got a nail file?"

"And a new bottle of blue polish. I know blue's your favorite," His dad said.

"Thank you!" Lance hugged him tightly. His dad smelled a bit like armpit from sitting out in the sun for so long but Lance didn't care, too excited.

"What about Dez and Yvette? Can we practice on them too?" Lance asked, staring back out onto the futbol field. He couldn't find Desirae, but Yvette was happily looking menacing as the goalie, her arms stretched out wide as she made an expression better suited to a feral monkey than a human.

"I don't think they'll want to," his dad said softly, "But you might convince Desirae. She's got her eye on a boy."

"She does?" Lance spotted her, and narrowed his eyes as he watched his sister run around the field. Her dark hair was tied back into a tight, unforgiving ponytail, and her mouth was almost as fierce as Yvette's, her dark eyes on fire as she danced between her opponents, her eyes never leaving the ball.

"She hasn't done much to impress him," Lance decided, "She looks the same as ever."

"He's not here—she isn't worried about impressing him now," his dad laughed, "and what about you, squirt? Are you trying to impress anyone?"

"I'm trying to impress _everyone_ ," Lance said.

"A high order. Not just one or two people?"

"Everyone," Lance confirmed.

"Why?" He dad asked, his voice a little quieter, more worried.

"Because I need to," Lance explained, "People make fun of me all the time in school. I want them to see that I'm not weird. Especially Matilda and Idalys."

His father frowned, pulling him in close to his warm side, and Lance inhaled the scent of sweat and sunshine coming from his dad's broad body. His dad squeezed his shoulder, his voice slow and careful with his words, "Remember what I said a while ago, Lance. Don't ever feel ashamed of yourself or the things you like. I'm so proud of you."

Lance knew that. But his dad said one thing, and it felt like the universe was determined to say another.

* * *

Keith was bleeding.

"For God's sake, Jerry, get napkins! We can't put the towels on it, they'll stain!" The woman shrieked.

The man slapped Keith on the back. "Way to take it like a champ!

Keith stumbled, more blood gushing from his nose and mouth. He grinned as best he could with his missing tooth.

"Those other boys were crying like pussies when you hit 'em, slugger," The man praised, shoving him along.

The woman dabbed his nose with paper towels roughly, scolding, "You're dripping on the carpet!"

"Let him be a man, Chloe, he doesn't need your fussing," The man slapped Keith on the back again. "He's 10 now, he's almost ready to pop a beer with me. Ain't that right, brat?"

Keith nodded eagerly, sopping up his nose with the towels, red staining his fingers and his teeth and his clothes.

For once, they seemed proud of him, like they'd take care of him. He even got to stick his lost tooth under his pillow and exchange it for a dollar, so Keith could actually buy something from the vending machines for lunch at school the next day. They weren't trying to give him up.

It was a summer of sports. A summer of scraped knees and the words "good boy" ringing in Keith's ears. He carried his baseball bat everywhere he went. The man smoked on the back porch and taught him how to shoot a gun and knock cans to the ground.

Keith even joined Boy Scouts in July. He wore the uniform with pride. The man clapped him on the shoulder and said "M'boy's gon be an Eagle Scout before too long, Chloe."

The woman kept him bandaged up.

Life was good. Keith was good.

He outlasted them instead. Keith was taken away from the man and the woman a month later, when they were found guilty of tax evasion, fraud, bribery, and extortion. This time, it wasn't Keith who'd been bad.

The policeman held onto his shoulders as he watched them get taken away, and said softly, "They were bad people, son."

But if the only time he'd been good was with bad people, Keith had no hopes of ever being good again.

* * *

Lance didn't even pretend like he wasn't dumpster diving. He totally was.

He dumped the trash last night, and it hasn't been picked up yet this morning. And the bags for good will were smuggled into the trash, because Lance was sneaky. He opened one of the larger trash bags, smuggled out the smaller grocery bag inside, and then retied the trash up, his prizes safe in their plastic cover.

He snuck the bag back inside with him, glad that he was the only one awake yet. It was 6:15 am, and the garbage truck would arrive at 6:30. It had been a narrow margin for his sneakiness.

Lance closed his bedroom door, now faced with oppressive silence and a nasty trash bag filled with good will goods. He picked at his secure knot, but the bag stayed together and made the loudest crinkling noises that Lance swore his heart would beat out of his chest.

Scissors, he thought. He rifled through his desk drawer for a pair. He came across his own, covered in sticky tape bits and bite marks, because Lance was a chewer.

Slicing through the plastic, Lance carefully extracted his present to himself. Desirae had literally threatened to set the thing on fire, demanding they get rid of it immediately, but Lance loved it.

It was a puffy pink dress with a faux satin finish, and it looked like bubblegum and sparkled with fake pink rhinestones around the waist. It was much too big for him, but not for too long. After all, he was eleven, and he was weedy. Lance grew another few inches almost every month, it felt like.

His sister's quinceañera dress, the prettiest dress he would likely ever stow away, and it wouldn't take long until he fit into it.

Lance locked the door behind him, making sure the window blinds were down as he got started on his transformation.

His shirt was first to go, then his shorts and his boxers. He slid on a pair of Yvette's panties, the silk ones that she couldn't admit to Dad she owned without getting questioned, and fairly easy to swipe out of her clean laundry one early morning last year. She'd never mentioned missing the periwinkle blue panties, and Lance had zero intention of her finding out he had them.

Next, he pulled on the ripped tights that Desirae had tried to convince him to throw away, once the run was too obvious even with her clear nail polish patch job. Lance had snuck these out of the trash too. What he'd give for a new pair—they couldn't afford to buy him clothes he wasn't going to wear outside the house though, and hand-me downs rarely came in good condition after Yvette and Desirae went through them.

Lance topped it off by grabbing his pilfered nail polish, an array of pinks, purples, sparkles, and blues joyously discarded to him by his older sisters, and painstakingly painting each and every nail to glossy pink and purple perfection. He blew on them as he hunted around for his box of makeup.

Finding it tucked under his bed, Lance pulled out his mascara and eyeliner. He applied the black lines he wanted around the outer edges of his eye, and then he made his lashes lush and full with the mascara. Moving on, he found his one tube of lipstick, and he painted his lips a thick, vibrant fuchsia, with a sparkly gloss on top.

Then, finally, did Lance allow himself to step into the pink dress and slide it up his body, tucking his arms through the puffy sleeves and wiggling to fit his chest into it without anything being there. Lance frowned. Dresses for little girls didn't have built in bras like this one did, so they laid flat against his flat chest. But this dress was designed for a girl with small but growing breasts and he was not a girl. He didn't have anything there.

Lance elected to ignore it for now, zipping up the dress and staring at his reflection in the mirror.

He looked...

...like a weedy, ugly, acne-coated boy in a stupid pink dress way too big for him, and clown makeup on his face and short bitten nails that weren't disguised by their bright colors.

_No_ , Lance told himself, thinking like that is how you make yourself miserable. _You're not ugly. You get to be a princess, you are above all that negativity._

So, with a new mindset in hand, Lance pressed the cups flat against his chest and reexamined the look, posing a bit. He scrunched up his nose. It still wasn't really fitting without a chest to fill it out.

Lance said, frowning, "It's not like I'm suddenly not gonna be flat. I'm stuck with what I got."

He pouted harder, before crossing his arms over the ill fitting chest portion of the dress and said, "I'll just have to fix it."

He took off the dress without bothering with the zipper. It had hung so loosely off of him that there was no point.

Taking out his seam ripper and his sewing kit, purchased for him by a female classmate and smuggled home in his backpack, Lance got to work.

Being a princess took a lot of effort.

When Desirae found the dress in his closet months later, she ruffled his hair and told him that if she'd known he wanted it, she'd have given it to him, no dumpster diving required. Lance finally could wear it and look in the mirror without seeing a weed, but a flower.

* * *

Keith's coach had told him that if he punched Ulrich, he was off the team for good.

Keith went right ahead and broke that fucker's nose under his knuckles, watching blood spurt all over the locker room's walls and on the slick green metal of the athlete's cubbies.

Keith had long since heard what everyone said about him. He was 13 and angry and made of fire and nothing could stop his fists once he wanted them to fly. They could taunt all they like, they could call him a freak, an emo loser, a worthless no-good punk, a lost cause, and Keith would make them pay for every word in blood. They didn't taunt after that.

Sometimes he brought one of his knives to school, just to frighten the other kids into staying away from him. And sometimes, if they were like Ulrich, he didn't need his knife to taste the kid's blood. It splattered on his lips all the same under his fists.

The coach roughly pulled him back, screaming, "What's wrong with you?! Is there anything you give a shit about, Gyeong?! You know what this means?!"

Yeah, Keith knew what this meant. He knew he was going to enjoy every second he saw Ulrich piss himself in fear when Keith walked by. He knew that he'd no longer have to spend his evenings wasted on playing basketball, which he didn't even like. He knew that this meant he'd be suspended from school for a week, if not more, and he could spend that time however he pleased, meaning at the public library.

There were no downsides to punching Ulrich in his deserving, snot-nosed, ugly mug, and so Keith had done it.

His coach manhandled him into his office to scream more, but Keith stopped listening.

The light flowed through the window and played patterns on the faux-wood of the table, warm contrast that glowed against the heavy weight of his eyelids as Keith let his eyes drift shut. If he concentrated, he could hear birds chirping outside, the steady hum of the air conditioner, the tap of children's feet in the hall and the locker room, the echo-y shouts of those swimming in the pool.

The world was so much bigger than just his body. He yearned to be part of it, to feel alive.

Keith didn't want to be a blade that the world tore itself on anymore.

He wanted to feel alive.

But now the closest he ever got was feeling angry, and making other living things bleed on his sharp edges.

When he opened his eyes again, his coach sighed deeply and said, "Gyeong, this school is the last one in the district that you can attend. Get expelled here and it's over. You could end up in Juvenile jail. We're going to kick you off the team and suspend you this time, but if this ever happens again, you're out of luck."

"Okay," Keith agreed. It was the outcome he'd wanted.

"On top of that, the school nurse feels like maybe you're lashing out because of your situation at home. You don't have any positive roll models, maybe. She's invited an older student from the garrison to come tutor you personally in classes, and if you fail to show him respect and to improve, we're going to give up on you. We can't teach a kid who doesn't want to learn."

_No one could_ , Keith thought.

His coach slid him a paper. "Your tutor's name is Takashi Shirogane. You'll report to him at 6 am every weekday starting next week."

Keith nodded. He tasted blood on his lips. He regretted nothing.

* * *

"Man, that Lance guy is such a fucking fag. Could he be more flamboyant if he tried?"

"I heard he's a tranny. That he thinks he's really a girl inside."

"I saw him at the club in a skirt last weekend because he's so desperate to choke on a cock."

"He wears make-up too, like a little bitch."

"Can't stay in the same bathroom as him for too long or you'll turn into a freak too!"

Lance continued ignoring them all as he washed off his face mask in the garrisons' communal bathroom sink. Like those guys could even talk. Gossiping like hyenas over shit they'd never even seen. Just because Lance had a skin care regimen and the best test scores in the cargo class. They were jealous he could outfly all their asses.

He was lucky enough the fighter class started earlier than the cargo, or else Lance would have to feel self conscious in front of those jackasses too, because at least these ones he could dismiss as brainless assholes. He'd have to acknowledge the fighter class as being actually talented and jackasses, and Lance couldn't stomach that this early in the morning.

He still waited until they left to pull out his cosmetics bag and get started on his morning routine.

Except he wasn't exactly alone.

He hadn't noticed until he looked up, but there was actually a silent dude next to him, having said absolutely nothing while those jerks creamed their pants over how weird Lance was. Lance was surprised he hadn't noticed him before now. Well, he hadn't spoken up so Lance had no positive feelings for the guy. Who listened to that shit and didn't defend someone?

Lance applied concealer and foundation and highlighter, contouring his face to blended perfection. He applied a balm to his lips, smacking them once before grinning widely. He looked damn good and his contour was flawless enough that only the guys who'd seen him with the face mask just peeled off would even notice he wasn't naturally flawless.

And well, Mr. Silence over there.

Lance glanced at the quiet guy brushing his teeth next to him. His long black hair was thick and curled like it was an after thought, draping across the boy's button nose and wide cheeks. It framed his surprisingly pretty, feminine face like a dream, and oh, he hadn't expected him to be so hot. Lance had to mask a thirsty croak of oh fuck. He was a little bit of a doomed bisexual.

The hot guy glanced over with his pretty violet eyes, mouth quirking down, "What?"

"Not afraid to catch the gay?" Lance raised an eyebrow.

The guy scoffed, "I'm more afraid you're contagious with mono or something."

Dick. Why did all the hot ones have to be dicks? Intending to squick the guy out so he'd leave Lance to apply his lip gloss in peace, Lance winked at him, his flirting taking on a poisonous edge, "Planning on kissing me, sweet-cheeks?"

Before Lance could really process it, he was pinned against the bathroom counter, a pair of lips on his own and a hot guy pressed all up along his front.

Apparently there were plans of kissing him.

Hot damn, was this boy solid as fuck and really strong, holding up all of Lance's weight with his hands on Lance's ass. The chub of his belly pressed up against Lance's hip bones and ohhh boy, Lance was very very bisexual and very very pleasantly surprised to find himself being kissed within an inch of his life.

This wasn't where he thought this was gonna go, but locking lips with the guy was definitely a happy surprise. As he opened his mouth to let the other boy deepen the kiss, he could taste the berries and cream flavor of his lip gloss on the other's tongue and it was so fucking hot that Lance moaned. Hot guy didn't let up, just kept plundering his mouth—his tongue and Lance's becoming very good friends as they made out against the counter.

When they broke for air, Lance tried to hoist himself back into the guy's arms, chasing after his lips, teasing, "I'm dying! And the only way to save me is mouth to mouth—get back here~"

The hot guy pulled back further, licking his lips, "In your dreams, princess."

Then he had the gall to leave Lance thoroughly kissed against the bathroom countertop, and just walk away.

Lance gawked, stunned. His fingertips found his lips, more sticky than glossy from how the kiss messed up his earlier primping. "Did that really just happen...?"

* * *

Keith had found attraction to be much like he found most other things he liked; dangerous and often caused him to bleed messy red.

When he was attracted to Shiro, his attraction tasted like copper, from how often he'd bite his lips. Later it tasted like salt, like Shiro's dirty guilty sweat as Keith was rejected by someone who knew how wrong it was to return his glances and did so anyway, telling him that the only reason he couldn't stop staring was because with Keith's hair how it was, with his face how it was, that he looked like a girl, and Shiro was straight. Straight edged, never breaking the rules.

Just any other 23 year old staring too much at a 15 year old boy who looks too much like a girl.

With strangers, his attraction tastes a lot more like a fist to the eye socket, a bitten tongue, a broken finger. They were just as likely to cut themselves on Keith as he was on them, and they rarely pushed anything beyond brief glances or sparing kisses before violence began and Keith got to test himself out as a weapon again and again.

Shiro disapproved, but that didn't matter. Shiro didn't matter.

Keith had never been soft, or sweet. The closest he'd ever gotten to being so is when he indulged in his attraction to the boy in the bathroom. He kissed that boy, drank him down, and the blade of his body didn't cut, not against skin like water, and if Keith didn't know better he'd try to drown himself in that boy's ocean and let the iron of him rust away until he was useless.

He didn't know how to like something that didn't hurt him.

So Keith didn't touch the sweet boy again, because it was dangerous in a completely different way, and blood attracted sharks in the water.

It was better not to be attracted to anyone anyway. It was better to forget.

Keith could still taste berries and cream on his lips, a phantom kiss.

* * *

Keith forgot.

Lance didn't.


End file.
